


Mortuis veritatem

by yo_kookie



Category: B.A.P
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Modern Fantasy, lots of latin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yo_kookie/pseuds/yo_kookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the untimely death of his parents, Junhong's life has done nothing but drag on. Even the memories of his bright and extraordinary childhood can't keep him grounded. He's alone. Completely alone. However, in an attempt to brighten things up, he rents a strange book from the library. What that book brings into his house isn't something he ever could have imagined. It brings turmoil, stress and uncertainty. But most of all, it brings adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tempora mutantur / Times change.

**Author's Note:**

> something that i've been uploading on aff for awhile now! i'll try to update this once a day until it's all caught up. if you'd like to read the whole thing, please go here: http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1041224/mortuis-veritatem-angst-fantasy-bap-daejae-himup-banglo

As a child, his parents were his everything. His mother homeschooled him while his father worked. Lessons would begin at nine am sharp and end just shy of three in the afternoon. She filled those hours with nothing but phantasmal wonder and unrivalled learning. During his allotted free time, she'd spin illustrious tales and demonstrate wondrous parlour tricks for him. He was smitten by the pure adventure, the raw majesty of his school days. The way she taught agreed with him, and he was able to breeze through each and every lesson she threw at him. His mother was patient, creative. "Good job, Junhong!" she'd cheer when he completed yet another lesson in record time. 

After work, his father would come home fully prepared to celebrate his son's remarkable achievements. Junhong would seat himself in his father's lap and his feet would rock back and forth as he listened to how his his day had gone. They'd eat dinner as a family of five. A father, a mother, a son, and their two dogs. His mother cooked such delicious meals that it was almost a shame they had no one to share them with. It was a bit of a secluded way to live, but he quite enjoyed the warm atmosphere it presented. Even at a young age, he was grateful for the small family he had, and even more thankful for how magical it made him feel. 

His solitary way of life was harshly interrupted the day he'd turned ten. With a kiss pressed to his forehead and a firm hug, his parents had left the house. He didn't see them until a solid week later when they had been rested in a plush wooden box and lowered into the ground for eternity. His father had patted him on the back before he left forever, telling him that he was on the first step towards manhood and that he could officially watch the house all by himself -- yes, even without the dogs. Before his mother took a journey to her grave, she held his little hand in hers and presented him with the most beautiful, most fleeting, little ball of luminescence for her "little man." 

After that, he couldn't remember any such birthday that didn't bring about overwhelming loneliness. 

It was in his parents will for him to be sent off to a Catholic school on the complete other side of the country. The man who'd read aloud his parents after-death wishes seemed too detached to be his father's best friend. His wire-rimmed circular glasses made his eyes smaller, more critical. He spoke with a drawl and a faint accent, and the way his lips formed around both Junhong's and his parents names seemed, for lack of a better word, wrong. A vast amount of riches had been left to Mr. and Mrs. Choi's only son, and were to be presented to him at the age of seventeen. When Junhong was deemed sufficiently adult-like, he would receive the towering amount of money left to him. Everything had been worked out, down to the last meticulous detail. 

Thus, Junhong was sent away. 

He left his childhood home and all of the memories it held. His warm bed was left behind in favour of the board-like beds in the dorm. Junhong had never been to an actual school, and each day during each and every lecture he found himself daydreaming of the times when his mother would teach him. Her fingers spinning illusions and her closed palms giving birth to all sorts of unfound wonders. He yearned to curl up with one of the dogs again while his father, albeit begrudgingly, weaved tricks of his own. Junhong missed the excitement, the innocence of his childhood days. His books at school were unforgiving, lifeless. The children there even more so. 

In order to pass the time, Junhong would find himself attempting to replicate his parent's mysterious tricks. He'd hold his hands together, just as his mother would in-between lessons, and concentrate as hard as he could. No little glowing sphere, no light of hope. Despite his failures, he still tried. However, this endless motivation to learn these mysterious tricks drove any potential friends away. The other students didn't like him as much as he would have preferred. One particular student, known for his academic prowess and religious devotion, told on Junhong for "practicing dark arts and seemingly Satanic rituals." Junhong didn't think he could hate those nuns anymore than he already had. 

They were far too strict for his liking. Where, as a child, Junhong had full and complete freedom to do as he liked, he found himself feeling extremely distasteful towards the constant nagging and berating of those women in habits. All of the boys had to be in bed at a specific time, and be awake at another. Their uniforms had to be in perfect order, and any lapel out of place would be at least one beating. The nuns stalled his creativity and nipped any unorthodox habits straight in the bud. At home, Junhong's creativity would flow and his imagination would roam to distant planets. However, at this prison, cleverly covered up as a school, Junhong could only bring himself to pass the time with homework. 

When a sleek black car rolled up on the campus it was the cold autumn morning of Junhong's seventeenth birthday. He'd been excused from class, and called down to the main office on the first floor of the massive building. In the halls, he found himself shaking with fear. What could he have done to upset those nuns this time? He was behaving, wasn't he? 

The tall ceilings within the halls echoed the hollow sounds of his footsteps. It was the only thing he could find solace in. Maybe this call-down wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps he had just made first in his class again. Nothing major, really. Perhaps it'd be more of a celebration if he had someone to rejoice with. He tried not to worry too much, but the nuns were unpredictable. The hard wood of their yardsticks were what bruised and bloodied his knuckles, making it harder and harder to write. So far, he'd managed to avoid the more… embarrassing punishments. Those women clad in black and white were what made the school hell. They were so cruel and unforgiving, and he found that every day that passed was a day that he hated them more. 

He stopped at the wooden door of the main office. The opaque glass window held no hopes. It caused his palms to sweat as he waited to be called in. His polished dress shoes squeaked on the newly waxed floor. There were hushed voices from within, among none he could decipher. He couldn't tell if he was going to get punished or congratulated, expelled or rewarded. What would they do with him once he stepped across the threshold and into that sour-smelling office? 

The door opened, and one of the nuns ushered him in. Her eyes had been weighed down by heavy bags, and thick wrinkles had already set into her skin. As she pushed him down into the hard oaken chair in front of the large desk, he could feel how cold and lifeless her hands were. She sent him a glare, her narrow eyes pulled into thin slits, before she dismissed herself. He found himself much more at ease after she had left. 

"Junhong, it's been so long." His gaze moved from the closed door to the desk. The principal sat behind it, his fingers laced together and a scowl set firmly in place upon his lips. His white hair was thinning, and the wrinkles set next to lips looked like the jowells of an old bull dog. However, it wasn’t him who talked. His protruding upper lip wasn’t quivering, and his crooked yellow teeth weren’t exposed as the words messily spilled from his mouth. No, it wasn’t him. The man beside him, tall and lean. His eyes were much brighter, his lips upturned in a much more genuine gesture. He had a face that was so familiar, yet Junhong couldn’t do enough memory-scouring to remember. 

When the man talked again, Junhong focused on the sound of his voice rather than the words he spoke. The way he spoke was kinder than he was used to, much gentler, and far more approachable. His voice was smooth and soothing, with just the right amount of deepness to it. It reminded him of his father, and it that moment, it felt like his father. The man had these dark brown eyes, ones that welcomed him. He felt comfortable, and at ease. A brief memory flashed before his eyes. Seated in his father’s lap, he listened, this time more to the words than the sound. 

“... here to see if you are eligible to receive the money.” The man finished up. He had this wide, hopeful smile set on his lips. Junhong wished he had been listening. 

“Your grades check out quite well, however.” He continued, not missing a beat. “First in your class more often than not. You’re quite brilliant, you know. Your parents would be proud.” He was proud, too, in a way. The way he stood taller with his back straighter screamed pride. His smile even widened, if that was possible. 

“If he is eligible, what happens to his education here?” The principal spoke, the sagging wrinkles on his face shaking. He stared at Junhong as he waited for a reply, gaze burning holes where their eyes met. He was smug, as if he knew he was to subject Junhong to at least two more years of an overblown education. 

“Well,” the man took a stack of papers from the desk and flipped through them. He hummed as he examined lines, scanned paragraphs, and counted on his fingers. “Judging by your policies, though he doesn’t have an outstanding discipline record, it is up to graduation standards. In addition to that, his grades are exemplary, and he has more than enough credits to graduate now. So, logically speaking, he can take the money and leave. All you have to do is approve his early graduation, present him with the diploma, and he may take his things and leave.”

Now it was Junhong’s turn to be smug. He watched as the principal’s grin deflated. Finally, after countless years of the creativity being beat out of him or doing nothing but subduing whatever magic and wonder his mother had filled him with. He’d be free, wielding more riches than he knew what to do with. His own lips curled into a smirk. This obscure Catholic school would lose their star student. Now, they would hardly qualify for any sort of state-funded rewards. The only student that could match up to his skill was just about to graduate. What would become of this little school in the middle of nowhere? Hopefully something terrible.

“I’d like to graduate early.” He mused, watching as the principal squirmed under his gaze. “And there’s no way you can deny me. Like he said, I’m either above or at every single one of your qualifications. You can’t keep me here. I have enough money for a lawyer now, anyway.”


	2. Pax intrantibus, salus exeuntibus / Peace to those who enter, good health to those who depart.

It took him years to return to his childhood home. After being freed from that hell school, he found himself a bit aimless. He eventually settled himself in a cheap, two-room, one-bath apartment. What his parents left to him would fund his living for quite a few years, but with nothing else to do, he set his sights on a job. One minimum-wage job later, and yet again he was without purpose. Again, he attempted to find something to do with himself. Years after years of trying to busy himself with miniscule, meaningless activities he found himself paying for the expensive cross-country bus ride en route to the one place he was looking forward to seeing.

The long, dirt driveway was almost the exact same. The sides of it had been overtaken by overgrown, lurching weeds. Green exploded from the side of it, and as he traversed down the lengthy road, plants were elongated and reaching for him like the lost memories tucked into the furthest recesses of his mind. 

The house at the top of the driveway had been aged by about a decade. The once pristine, once beautiful white paint was peeling off of the wooden siding, and what shown from underneath was waterlogged and grey. Again, green was prominent in the surroundings. Trees engulfed the little home as if it was within it's own terrarium. Weeds and grasses sprouted from the ground, verdant and tall. They tickled his knees as he walked through the sea of plant life and up to the door. It's grain had been long since faded, and it, too, was a dull grey. The life of his once vibrant home seemed to have left along with the lives of his parents. 

He knocked, rose-tinted memories crashing down on his shoulders. He could see his parents inside, his mother in the kitchen with an array of workbooks spread across the table and his father snapping to a tune he'd heard on the radio whilst reading a novella. The dogs sat beneath their feet, eyes tired and bodies limp with laziness. He saw himself, at the gentle age of nine, seated in his father's lap and working at the difficult words that riddled the pages of his father's newest story. A breeze blew in from the window, rustling pages and displacing a few strands of hair, but otherwise it disturbed nothing. From outside, the dry leaves rubbed against each other on the trees, sounding like sandpaper on wood. It was perfect. 

Then however, a memory painted in grey sprung to his eyes. 

The television was alight with a rerun of a Saturday morning cartoon, and the wacky antics were nothing but appealing to a new ten year old. For the first time in his life, he was alone in his house. He wasn't terrified by any means, but more so intrigued by what a lone soldier could do to protect his own humble abode. When the programming took a break, he stood and began marching across the living room, imitating the motions of the soldiers he had read about during The Great War. His footsteps were methodical and stiff. He put a firm scowl on his face and continued his marching. Then, as if on command, a knock sounded and the soldier received his first mission. 

He opened the door, the lock having been long rotted off. It creaked open, never like it had used to. The loud shrill of the rusted hinges resounded through the house. As he entered, he found no rose-tinted memories, nor did he find traces of even those dim ones, the ones he'd stored in the the deepest parts of his mind. 

The house was in shambles. No longer did he find that luxurious bright couch, or the authentic Indian carpet that dolled up the living room. The television that he'd watched countless programs on did not stand proud in it's spot against the wall. Upon entering the kitchen, he found not the outdated appliances nor the old oaken kitchen table on which he'd used to learn. Upstairs, his room was not even a shell of what it had been. The sky blue wall paper had been torn from the walls, and what remained was the white remnants of the backing. His bed which he remembered so fondly, and yearned to sleep in once again, was merely a cold rusted frame. The light fixture overhead had fallen from the ceiling and lay in an explosion of glass shards on the rotting floor. 

He couldn't move from his spot in the doorway. What was he expecting? An older woman and her husband to welcome him home? To finally teach him the meaning and the secrets behind the magic that was his childhood? Two dogs, gentle and slow, to lick his palms as he scratched behind their ears? For so many years he'd been away, and for so many years he'd suppressed his feelings towards their deaths. But now, it hit him like a speeding train. 

And he collapsed. 

Glass pierced the soft skin of his palms as he dropped to his hands and knees. He was eye level with the dust-covered ground and watched as his tears left noticeable spots in the debris. His body shook with the sadness of eight, no, nine years of hopelessness, of anguish, of numbness. He let his voice echo throughout the high ceilings of the foyer and out the front door that had been left ajar. Almost like the child he never truly got to be, he slammed his fists into the floor, begging for his mother, his father, anybody. He was tired of being alone. He wanted to be nine again and sit in his father's lap. Or curl up with the dogs in front of the fireplace. He wanted to watch his mother's eyes glow as she produced another new trick from her endless supply of wonders. He was fed up with that school and those emotionless nuns that beat him without a second thought. No longer did he want to cry himself to sleep or busy himself with piles upon piles of school work. No more hiding from his feelings. No more searching for something he knew wasn't there. No more crippling loneliness that had been mistaken for strong solitude. He wanted his mom and his dad and their warm embraces. He never wanted to be a man. All he wanted were his parents, and those were two things he could never get back. 

For hours he lay on the floor, shards of glass cutting into his skin and dust settling on his being. He'd fuse with this house, become the memories tinted in rose. The soldier that answered the door at age ten, and carried out his nine year long mission was finally home. There was no mommy and no daddy to come home to. No wife, no kids, no pets. He was alone. Not even the house was there for him to return to. It had died along with his parents, and he found it increasingly harder to remember it in it's full glory. It faded with the light of the sun on the horizon, and when the soft blue gave way to deep purple, he found himself picking up the pieces of his being and meandering back down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he looked long and hard at the door to his parent's room and could hear the laughter emanating from it. He could see the soft glow from the light beneath the peeling red door. The warmth washed over him as he stared. Then, something clicked, and he turned around and kept walking. His long strides across the living room were merely remnants of his nine year march. They were stiff, but they lacked method. There was no scowl etched onto his lips, but rather something more neutral. He opened the door wider, peering out in the ocean of grasses and weeds before him. He was a soldier, protecting this house from intruders and convicts. He was a soldier, noble in stature and mighty in manner. He was a soldier, and finally, after nine years, he was dismissed.   
He dared one last look to the kitchen and saw the fall afternoon in his father's lap, before he closed the door and walked away.


	3. Inter spem et metum / Between hope and fear.

He went on the same after that. Though there was that slight bit of reassurance that had come from his trip back home, it seemed as if there really was nothing for him to come home to. Thus, he continued with his dead-end job. He'd work hours upon hours until the early callings of the morning and in turn come home to an empty little apartment. On days off he would waste time with something fruitless. Skateboarding, channel surfing, hell, even cleaning. It was all pointless in the end. He fell into that obnoxious, never ending daily routine. There were times late at night, when the moon was high overhead and the crickets were singing away their throes that he found himself missing that forsaken academy and all of the organised learning that went on within its walls. 

He was lonely. A life of complete and utter solitude was one that he found himself regretting quite a bit. At least at that horrible, unforgiving school he had a roommate or a study partner. Someone to talk to, even if it was concerning minor, meaningless things. Life sped on by him, and he found himself not caring in the slightest what the universe would hurl at him next.

However, whatever strange and unpredictable impulse that the universe decided to act upon was not what he expected. What he saw in his future was crippling debt, an eviction on his apartment, or even his own demise. Being by himself for so long, he had only the negativities in life to look forward to. No friend could surprise him at the door, case of beer in hand, and invite themselves in because, to be frank, he had none. There was no one to stay up late to watch reruns of old television shows at night. No one to hang out with on the days off, or between college classes that he was reluctant to take. Small discounts at the grocery store no longer cheered him up on the bad days, and no amount of sweets or pillows on the couch could ease his crippling loneliness. His life had slipped and fallen into a deep rut, and he found himself unwilling to help himself out of it. Perhaps it was because of the way the solitude just sapped the energy from him. Or was it the depression and regret that he had that finally, after countless years, reared it's ugly claws and latched onto to him. It was quite reluctant to let go, and he didn't quite feel the need to shoo it away and back into the darkest parts of his mind. 

But finally, a break in the daily tasks, the continuous rituals, came in and shattered the glass box that he had enclosed himself in for years upon years. While the glass box protected him from anymore heartache it also shielded him from the delicate relationships that were so imperative in keeping him together. He watched through the transparent, towering walls of it as people loved and spent time together and carried on. It made him envious of their effortless bliss. Though it was only a matter of time before someone or something threw a stone at the walls of his box and smashed it, leaving him exposed and open to whatever may tread across the field of broken glass shards and embrace him. 

The first time that he saw a crack in that glass was at the county library. 

He had long since settled into an apartment in a small, isolated town. Despite the enclosed tight-knit nature of the people who inhabited that town, he had come to know not one soul. Though there were most likely those who recognized his face when he was out food shopping or working a few hours a week, none of the population of that small town knew more than his name and his face. Girls would swing by while he was mopping the dirtied and peeling tiles of the aging supermarket or taking inventory in one of the local shops. They would flip their hair and pucker their lips and draw out their words, but he found himself not caring in the slightest. Their subtle touches and smooth voices would get them nowhere. He would acknowledge their presence as well as their words with a nod, but wouldn’t give anything more. It wasn’t like he wanted to be cold or jaded towards them. There was just nothing left for him to offer to others. His life was in shambles and he was not looking to be babysat nor did he wish to babysit. He would carry on with his life and they would theirs. 

However, in an attempt to lighten his mood and alleviate the weight of tiresome solitude, he took a trip to the library. He had only visited a few times before for trivial purposes. This time, he was in search of something to occupy himself better than his television could. Something temporary and exciting. He wasn’t quite into buying extravagant things for himself using his inherited riches, for he had learned that a widescreen, high definition television could never aid an ailing physique. Books were fleeting, though. The stories inscribed in their pages meant to entertain once or twice and fling the reader into a world that is not their own. He wanted to live a life that he never dreamed of, one with a rough beginning and middle, but a satisfying and happy ending. Most of all, though, he wanted to find the magic of his earlier years, and relive the tales that his mother and father would spin for him using the most intimate pairings of words and phrases.

He wanted to live like he had lived before. 

He didn’t go home with any celebrated novella, though. What he tucked beneath his arm was no fantasy story written to occupy young minds. A thick, leather-bound book was nestled between the crook of his elbow and his side. The cover had been delicately painted with a fine point bristled paintbrush in a language he couldn’t quite read. Despite the obvious language barrier, he was really not too concerned with the state of the transcription of the cover. Though it was the cover that had initially piqued his interest, once he flipped through the faded, yellow pages, he was pleasantly surprised to see that the ink scratched onto the page was legible and in the language he spoke and read fluently. After scanning the pages of word and crude artwork, he had decided that that was the book he was checking out. He was only allowed to keep it for three weeks, the librarian informed him, and if he kept it longer he would have to pay a five cent fee for every day the book was late afterward. It wasn’t like he had anything to do in three weeks. He bid the kind old woman behind the librarian’s desk goodbye before he headed back to his apartment. Finally, something to look forward to. 

Once safely locked into his lonely little apartment, he dropped the heavy tome onto his stained wooden desk. The sound it made as it came in contact with the desktop was deep, almost laboured, as if the one-foot fall from his hands to the wood knocked the breath right out of it. Despite the excitement and slight anxiety eating away at him, pleading him to open the thick leather cover, he decided to instead head towards the kitchen. The book was his for three weeks. He had time to mess around for a handful of hours. Dinner had yet to be made, and a movie recorded in the once new - age colours of black and white was scheduled to air at precisely five in the evening. If there was one thing that he never failed to look forward to, it was films and television programs from another time. He could place the blame for his penchant of old programming to one of his roommates back in that accursed academy. His roommate had a solid six years on him, so he wasn't his roommate for too long. However, they quickly became close and looking back on it, the nights he stayed up with him to sneak down and catch one of those black-and-white movies or listen to him try to compose and write music was one of the only highlights of his time there. Those old films brought him back to a time after his parents, but before the bitter solitude fully set in. Once upon a time he had a friend, but like all things in his life, he eventually lost him. 

Dinner had been a haphazardly put together salad with stale croutons. The movie that he entertained himself with whilst dining on his two-star salad was, regrettably, not the best. Though he still managed to appreciate the art and the effort put into the film whilst he crunched and crunched on those old bread chunks and soggy lettuce leaves. Once the program finally concluded, the credits fading in and out on a grainy backdrop used prominently throughout the movie, he dropped his used salad bowl in the sink and returned to his desk where the rented book sat. 

The volume was thick, and the pages were yellowed and fraying at the edges. It looked aged, and could have very likely been more than a century old. There was no publication or copyright information printed on those first few blank pages that no one ever bothered to glance at. The only clear inscription within the span of the first four pages was written with a calligraphy pen, the ink bleeding through onto the next page and blots of of it splattered all around the word. It had been etched onto the paper in large, curling and majestic cursive.   
'Necromancy'  
The word was foreign to his tongue. It was a word banned from the books at school, and one that he only vaguely remembered hearing about in all of the false tales his younger roommates would go on about. Junhong could only stare at the embellished word and the swooping of its letters. He wanted to delve further into the book, to see all the wonders that were trapped between two rough leather covers, but at the same time he was afraid. What sort of troubles could he be getting himself into? Once he turned those papyrus pages, what sort of world would he be thrusting himself into? If he was any other age than nineteen, surely he'd turn to the next page effortlessly, right? It was just due to the excessive schooling, the relentless bible-beating, that he was so reluctant. Words of the nuns echoed throughout his head. If he turned that page, he'd be giving himself up for the devil. Nothing as sinister as the dark arts was suited for a child of God. He needed to research this 'necromancy' before he actually decided it was something he wanted to commit to. Well, not commit. Rather, he needed to sort out some background information in regards to it before he made sure it was something he wanted to look over and perhaps begin to take interest in. The rental time for the book was just shy of three weeks now, anyway. He had time.


	4. Aegri somnia / A sick man's dreams.

Three weeks came and went quite fast. Suddenly all the time in the world felt like the last grain of sand falling to the bottom of the hourglass. The heaving text hadn't moved from the centre of his wooden desk. Not even the cover was closed. The elaborate, ornate wording still faced the ceiling. Not a page had been turned, and not a word had been read. Junhong had done the research that he had set out to do, but still found himself fearing the possible consequences of him diving into the yellowed pages of that book. 

What his research had yielded was almost worrisome in a way. One of the darkest of arts. Necromancy involved séances and other ways of communicating with the deceased. It had been defined as a black art, one practiced by witches and wizards. The mere thought of all that made his head spin. This wasn't the breed of magic that shined bright during his youth. It wasn't the innocent, harmless little tricks his parents would do. This was bigger, more serious. Something he never dreamed of. Perhaps what his parents did were just illusions. Nothing serious, nothing even remotely dangerous. What if those awesome ruses were nothing more than those performed at a seven year old's birthday party by an amateur magician? The thought was too overwhelming. He couldn't have been fooled into thinking that simple, insignificant parlour tricks were some elaborate and mysterious art that he'd never find out the truth behind. It made him sick. 

However, despite himself, he renewed the book at the end of it’s rental period. He still found great interest in it, and though the idea of the black magic within the book shook him to his core a part of him felt as though he needed to open up this whole other world. Perhaps it was because he felt it was a posthumous wish of his parent’s. It could be them, bestowing their love of magic unto him even though this “Necromancy” was almost an entirely different magic. After he’d returned from the library a second time, the heavy tome went back to it’s position of waiting atop his desk, but this time it’s cover didn’t stretch open and reveal the swooping black letters on the title page. Almost as if it was a repeat of three weeks prior, Junhong found himself with a meager salad in hand as he settled himself on the couch and watched one of those antique, outdated movies he was so fond of. The book sat harmlessly on his desk and didn’t receive even a second thought. 

He’d retired to bed shortly after the film, opting for a shower in the morning before he went to work. Once he’d done his nightly before-bed rituals and relaxed himself into his feathery blankets Junhong fell into sleep’s gentle embrace rather quickly. His dreams weren’t the typical television static, nor were they the memories he’d kept locked tightly in the back of his mind for only his subconscious to dwell on. He was haunted by the book. It’s thick leather cover reached out to him, beseeching him to open it and gaze upon the wonders that sat within it. He saw himself at a desk, large and lumbering. The chair that he sat in towered above the ground, and the legs themselves looked almost warped when he looked to the ground. What lay in front of him on that equally as tall desk was the book in all of it’s ominous glory. Items from his childhood sat around it and littered the desktop before him; the novella -- The Silver Chalice -- that his father had left with and never returned, his mother’s rings, still sterling and polished as they were the day she had left, and even the collars of his two dogs whose names he could no longer recall. Workbooks and homework and all sorts of other trinkets that he remembered vividly from his childhood filled the remaining space of the desk. 

What was he supposed to do? Open the book that sat right in front of him? What could that unleash? His head spun with all of the terrifying possibilities. He could be sent to hell, lampooned, spurned. Is that what he wanted? 

As if on it’s own, his hand reached for the frayed edges of the leather-bound cover of the book. No matter how much he urged himself to stop, he couldn’t. Perhaps it was the gravity of the situation. Open the book or perhaps face a fatal death. The longer he resisted, the more the legs of his lofty chair trembled. Even the contents of the desktop were rattled, and he watched as the bright red collar of one of his labs plummeted to whatever may lie below. Trepidation took hold of him and pressured him into giving in. 

Open the book. That’s all he had to do. Peel back the cover. It couldn’t be some Pandora’s Box. It was nothing more than an old, thick book. His fingers curled around the leather covering and he lifted it slowly, tentatively. The first pages were blank as he remembered, but as he continued to turn page after page at the same rate, they began turning on their own. It was as if the book was turning it’s own pages at an alarming speed. Sketches, hasty cursive, mathematics, diagrams all flitted by in a black and white blur. It reminded him of the movies he loved so dearly. Grainy, unfocused and old. 

He awoke in a cold sweat. The last thing he could remember was the pages of that book turning and turning and making his head spin. That damned book. He sat up and looked for it in the shallow lighting that the dawn’s sun provided. There it was, still sitting on his desk looking completely harmless. No towering wooden legs, no trembling desktop, and no flitting pages. It just… sat there looking no more imposing than it had before he went to bed. Perhaps it was just his panicked state of mind creating some sort of twisted, nonsensical dream. That seemed to be all the explaining that he needed. 

In a feeble attempt to direct his mind other places, Junhong showered as soon as he left the twisting confines of his feathered blankets. As the hot water poured from the chrome shower head he couldn't clear his head. That book just kept appearing in front of him after he blinked. It was large and imposing and demanded that he unleash whatever was inside of it. Not even five minutes into his shower, he found himself kneeling on floor of his bathtub and clutching his head. This isn't what he wanted. All he wanted was something a little different. Whatever this was, it was too different. He had to stop this before it got out of hand. There was time before work. That book was going back and he was going to wash his hands of this whole affair. No more book, no more dreams, and he would return to his daily rituals as if it never occurred. 

———

What greeted him on his doorstep at the earliest callings of morning made his chest tighten. In all of it’s thick, eye-catching glory was that forsaken book. How the hell did it get there? It's not as if books had legs and just walked places. It was also quite unlikely that someone had dropped it off at his house. No matter how hard he wracked his brain there was no clear explanation. Finally dismissing it, he begrudgingly picked up the book and drudged inside. There was no way he wanted to face the unfathomable fee the library was bound to be placed upon his shoulders if he had lost possession of the book. 

The book again found itself on the surface of his desk. It sat, foreboding and watching him. He felt the burning on his back as the book just observed him. Even as he undressed and moved to the bathroom, the book still stared. It was unnerving. As Junhong washed away the grogginess of his thirteen hour shift he thought back to the book. His skin crawled as he thought of the book infiltrating his house, his sanctuary. His glass box. 

As he retired from his shower, Junhong attempted to shake away his thoughts of the book along with the water soaking his hair. The towel that covered his waist when he got out did nothing to cover the awkward lankiness of his body. It was always disconcerting to look at himself in the fogged-up mirror of his bathroom. He felt almost… inadequate. Sure, he must have been pleasing to the eyes, but what would his mother say about him? Was he as handsome as she dreamed he would be? Or did he leave more to be desired. Was his life even going in the right direction? A minimum wage job, a nice apartment, and a full stomach. He was smart enough for college, but had no real motivation to go. The funds in his bank account left to him by his parents had hardly been touched. At first, he jumped at the idea of having a small fortune to spend as freely as he wished, but the words beaten into him by the nuns at the academy told him that he knew better. Save the money for emergencies. There was no use spending it on meaningless luxuries that he could live without. 

Eventually he sighed and dismissed his self-evaluating thoughts. He’d save those for the next shower. Despite the fact that it was quickly approaching eight thirty in the morning, bed seemed to be the ideal place. And that’s where Junhong found himself not even five minutes later. He fell into the feathered sheets of his bed gratefully. Sleep was wonderful and welcoming. He was enclosed by the amiability of drowsiness and the quiet ticking of his desk clock was what ultimately lulled him into a short, dreamless sleep. Despite the rather brevity of the action, when he awoke he felt refreshed. It was short lived, however, when he laid eyes on the thick book still sitting on his desk. 

That damned book. That curse on his existence. Just what was it? It came into his house and invaded the only place he felt remotely safe. In a fit of exhausted rage, he flung himself out of his bed and into the kitchen. As his feet slapped against the cold tile of the kitchen, all he could think about was that thing that sat in his bedroom. The refrigerator door swung open with all of the fervour of an enraged bear as he attempted to free his mind from the sinister influence of that dreadful thing. 

Another lackluster dinner was what perched itself in his lap not even an hour later. It was something other than salad, thankfully, but it still was without the the exquisite tastes of a meal cooked by a loving mother. No outdated black-and-white flick graced the LED screen of his television. Instead, a young newscaster droned on of a new headline of some outbreak of a disease in an obscure town somewhere deep in India. Of course there was no relevance to him or the immediacy of his country, but it was obviously something worth some semblance of mentioning. Any normal person would feel pity for those suffering, yet his only passing thought was the peace they must’ve received without the burden of the book. 

It was on the eighth night that the book had invaded his home that he had one of the strangest dreams yet. Junhong hadn’t dreamt of his mother since he was eleven, and even then those dreams were hazy and cold and he never really was sure if that was his mother’s retreating silhouette. However, that night’s dream was vastly different from the ones he could recall from years earlier. Since his second time of renewing that book his sleeping pattern had suffered greatly. No longer could he keep his eyes open during tedious work hours. Often he found himself falling asleep at the deli counter or while he was moving the broom side to side long after the supermarket had closed. That book kept him anxious during his waking hours and panicked in the ones he spent asleep. The dreams would be anything from him being placed in eery, elongated halls where the book laid in waiting for him at the end to him desperately trying to leap from page to page as the book attempted to close it’s heavy leather cover on him. The final, most impactful dream was the one featuring his mother. 

For once, she wasn’t walking away from him. Her long hair flowed in waves as she advanced towards him with open arms. The smile she wore was warm and inviting as every bit as loving as it used to be. No longer was the landscape dark and turbulent, as dreams that she featured in tended to be. The sun shone through soft clouds as a light bout of rain fell from overhead. The only sound was the gentle falling of the rain droplets. The ambience was light, airy and peaceful. Almost as if it was a state of perfect nirvana. 

When she spoke, her voice was soft, patient, like it had always been. ‘Nothing is going to hurt you,’ she said, ‘everything will be alright.’ It was as if she was speaking a lullaby. The calming tone of her voice could have remedied even the most stubborn of diseases. Everything was there. Her vitality, her spirit, and most of all her life. There she was, right in front of him, enveloping him in a tight hug. If it hadn't felt so real, then he would've been shocked by the words that left her lips next. 

‘Open the book.’

Junhong sat up. His sheets weren’t soaked in sweat and his hands weren’t shaking with residual fear from his dreaming. Like every other time he had awoke, his eyes drifted almost curiously to the heaving book perched upon his desktop. However, there was no fear from the sight of it. It was almost as if all of the weight had been lifted from his shoulders and what was left behind was just peace. He remembered the dream. It was peculiar to have a dream with his mother. He thought that he had stopped dreaming of her long ago. What was it that she had said? Things are going to be alright. Nothing will hurt him. There was one more thing, one that he couldn’t quite remember. And then it hit him. The book. Open the book. Was that what she really wanted? Well, if it came from his mother’s lips then he really had no choice. 

Junhong pulled back the covers and gave in to the freezing nighttime air. He got out of bed and, despite the coolness of the floor freezing his toes, he made his way to his desk. There the book sat, yet, something seemed different. It wasn’t threatening and imposing. Now it seemed almost… harmless. He remembered his mother’s words, spoken quietly and lovingly, and touched the cover of the book. Without hesitation he opened it and flipped past the first few pages. Uncertainty plagued his mind as he stared at the table of contents. Then, without any semblance of fear, he turned to the first chapter.


	5. Non timebo mala / I will fear no evil.

Junhong missed work the next day, and the day after as well. It wasn’t a huge issue by any stretch as he was known for taking a few days off here and there. However, what he did in lieu of his graveyard shifts at the supermarket was more concerning. 

The first chapter of that book was… nothing. It was no more than a poem, and not even one he could read. Symbols he couldn’t even begin to recognize covered the page in uneven stanzas. He must have spent a good three hours invested in research on this foreign language. But there was nothing. No documentation of a seemingly dead language such as this, and even when he attempted to branch out in his information scouring there wasn’t any mention of the book. Was it really that old? 

After yielding nothing in his relentless research, he turned back to the book. The second chapter was quite different from the one preceding it. Surprisingly, it was in English. His native language and one that was taught quite extensively at the academy. The chapter itself was nothing to write home about. All it did was tell him things that he already knew. Necromancy was the darkest art among magic. It was forbidden to be practiced by Jews and Christians alike and was considered a form of divination. Theurgy was quite prevalent in necromancy. Ritualistic practices like séances seemed to be a staple of the art. Anything from incantations to wands or magic circles were involved in summoning the deceased. 

The repeat of information would have been dull and lifeless if it wasn't for the way that the book explained itself, it’s art. Words were spun together elegantly in majestic, swooping cursive. Handwritten books were something that had gone completely obsolete, but the practice was still appreciated. Whoever the author was must have been quite prudent, for each and every page was organized, neat, and gorgeous. Even merely looking at the words littering the pages was entertaining in itself. There was so much attention to detail and effort and beauty. The author must have had an eye for aesthetics. 

For chapters and chapters afterward, the history of necromancy was explained. To be frank, it wasn't all too interesting, yet the textual style kept him enthralled. He learned of Odysseus’ nighttime ritual during which he created a libation made of ceremonial animal’s blood among other things as well as the fundamental values that necromancy could provide. But when he came down to it, Junhong really had no interest in any such divination nor did he with communicating with the deceased. Sure, it would have been nice to converse with his parents one last time and implore where it was they had gone on his tenth birthday. That wouldn't work, though. The book had told him that after twelve months of the death of the physical body all he could come into contact with was the residual spirit which, unfortunately, spoke in no more than the hushed whispers of the dead. 

However, that couldn't stop him from inquiring information from others. He just needed advice, is all. What advice could be more profound than from the revelations of the recently deceased? He'd need people, the book said. Four to seven people in total as well as a planchette. All he had was himself and instructions on how to make his own spirit board. The book did seem to be decently dated, though. Perhaps he could get away with one person and a patented ouija board. He could sure as hell try to, at least. 

After a week of browsing the Internet for a proper ouija board, Junhong finally landed himself in front of a small shop in town. The sign that was placed high over the large shop window was no longer legible; the words that had once been painted onto it had been faded by the elements. Wind chimes and dream catchers hung precariously off of the dull blue and white awning, and they, too, seemed to have had the colour sucked from them by the weather. The pavement in front of the little establishment was cracked and broken and looked like it hadn't been touched in decades. Upon opening the creaky white shop door, a small bell rang from overhead and echoed throughout the tiny, crowded room. Inside, the shop was like any other cliché antique store from the movies. A darkness seemed to loom overhead despite the humming of the fluorescent lights above. The walls were wooden and shiny with some sort of veneer, and different antique plates, puppets, and pictures hung off of them. Maneuvering through the thin walkway that separated one row of antiques from another was harder than he imagined. Outstretched hands of mannequins caught onto his thin sweatshirt as his feet twisted and tangled when he tried to avoid stepping on old tin toys placed on the floor. When he finally made it to the stained and scratched checkout desk at the back of the store he'd already worked up a sweat. 

As expected, no one stood behind the counter. He was sure that the owner just loved to watch their customers squirm as they traversed throughout this eery little antiques shop. A silver bell stood out proudly against the dark varnish of the counter. Like every other teenager who made a bad decision in a horror movie, Junhong tapped the top of the bell. The sound ricocheted off of the thick wooden walls and bounced back to his ears. Unexpectedly, instead of a tall, wide eyed ship keeper appearing behind him, a short, old Native American woman stepped out from what seemed to be a backroom. Her back was hunched from the years she spent walking the earth and her eyes were small and wrinkled, yet they held the wisdom of many lifetimes. The braids she wore were a beautiful shade of silver that came with age and as she spoke her voice had the exhausted but sweet sound that old ladies tended to have. 

She asked what he needed, politely of course. For a moment, he was entranced by her dark eyes that hid unspoken wonders. Quickly, though, he was shaken out of his trance and answered her question with another of his own. 

“Do you sell antique ouija boards, by any chance?” 

The old woman smiled and her eyes shrunk. “Ouija boards are dangerous things to get involved with. You seem to know that, though.” 

He saw, for a slight moment, a flash of deviousness across her lips. “How can you tell that?”

“Oh, I have a knack for reading people,” the laugh she let out was hearty and genuine. “You seem like the cautious type. Always making sure to do your research before you leap into something. That's why you didn't go to college, right? Nothing for you to gain from that. You're much happier by yourself.” 

Junhong blinked. He was at a loss of words. As she stepped out from behind the counter and began walking through the store with all of the practiced grace of a professional dancer he couldn't help but wonder how she knew all that. Knowing how to read people was one thing, but knowing something so personal was another. Did she perhaps know about the book as well?

“Follow me, please.” She beckoned to him with a long, wrinkled finger. He tried to catch up to her receding figure, yet couldn't steer himself with the same expertise. Luckily, she stopped soon after she'd called out to him. When he caught up, the old woman was standing in front of a bookcase that cascaded towards the ceiling. It's shelves were heavily veneered like the walls and were a dark cherry colour. Many different knick knacks littered each and every shelf. Anything from 1950’s wind up toys to old souvenirs from famous places like Niagara Falls. 

What caught his eye wasn't the collector’s edition slinky dog that stood in front of its box with a faux, painted smile. No, instead it was exactly what he'd been looking for. Displayed right on top of it’s yellowed, frayed box was an old ouija board. Two rows of thick black letters adorned the centre along with numbers zero through nine and ‘Farewell’ written beneath. A waxing crescent moon with a star and the word ‘No’ decorated the right side while a full moon with an off putting facial expression and the word ‘Yes’ adorned the left. Other images gave the board it's own flare: cats on either side of the letters -- one sitting and one standing -- as well as stars in each of the bottom corners. The wood was a light colour and still had it’s glossy finish. In front of the board itself was a yellowed planchette that was cold to the touch. 

“How much?” He breathed, still in awe of the preserved beauty of the board. 

“You know,” the old woman mused, “I've never seen someone like yourself come in here. Your eyes lack hope and your figure seems to be slouched in surrender. Many people have come in here and inquired about my board, but none of them were like you.” 

Junhong waited patiently for her to tell him he could have it for free or an extremely discounted price. No such offer came. 

“They've all told me they'd pay anything for this board. Large amounts of money, priceless gems, anything else your young mind can imagine.” She continued. “Yet my board is still here, untouched by those corrupt hands. But you,” She pointed her ring-covered finger at him. “You are different. Innocent, suffering. I can see it. That is why I will trust you with my board. I've had people offer me thousands for this little board. You can have it for one thousand and a half.” 

“A thousand and a half,” He reiterated, touching the wallet in the pocket of his sweatshirt. Of course, that wasn't too much for him. There was a small fortune gathering dust in his bank account. Surely, one thousand five hundred was no dent in his funds. 

“What do you say? One thousand and a half. No more, and no less.” 

Junhong eyed the board before he turned to the old woman and her thin, scrutinizing eyes. “I think we have a deal.”

———

When he left the store, the overcast sky had gave way to darker, more threatening clouds. As cozy as the small shop seemed, he was extremely grateful to have enough room to stretch his limbs. In his hand, he carried a plastic bag containing his expensive ouija board. The old woman had packed it neatly in it's worn box complete with the polished granite planchette and coffee-stained directions. The smirk she'd given him before he left stuck in his mind, and as much as he tried to forget the fraudulent upturn of her lips he couldn't manage to wipe the image from his mind. 

Once safe inside his home, Junhong was eager to start the ritual. He brushed the stale pizza crumbs off of his coffee table and withdrew the old wooden board from the box. It contrasted his dark table nicely. After placing the planchette on the ‘Ouija’ logo at the top of the board, he headed towards his room to retrieve the book. While he could rely on the directions, he trusted the words of the book far more. Where the directions said he could converse with the dead by himself, the book said he needed at least three more people. 

With the book open to the page he'd dog-eared for this specific occasion and both of his hands placed firmly on the planchette, Junhong recited the short incantation that the book had provided him. The Latin that spilled from his mouth was slow and unpracticed. He hadn't used the old language since his time at the academy, and even then it was usually limited to class time. 

He kept his eyes closed -- more so in caution than in spirit -- as he waited for the little granite pointer beneath his fingertips to move. Though he wasn't exactly sure how long he waited, he knew it was more than enough time. Nothing happened. Frustrated and upset, he forced the cover of the book closed and turned to the wrinkled sheet of directions that had come with the board itself. After reading them over, he once again prepared himself for another attempt. Once again, though, his calling for the spirits yielded no results. 

Again and again he tried. He switched between the incantation from the book and the directions from the board, and eventually tried different combinations of the two. Yet, still, nothing. After what must have been at least the nineteenth time -- yes, he was counting -- he threw that overpriced wooden slab off his coffee table. The planchette went flying and made a dull thud as it came in contact with his wall. He hadn't really expected it to work in the first place, but for some reason the way that the old woman had looked at him gave him hope. But here he was, standing in the middle of his living room with balled fists and tears streaming down his face all because he let that old woman read him like he was some fucking book. 

Junhong sniffed and wiped his eyes, taking in a big laboured breath. He was exhausted.


	6. Dum inter homines sumus, colamus humanitatem / As long as we are among humans, let us be humane.

Yongguk thought nothing could force him out of his life of solitude. Though it wasn't complete solitude; he had the plants and animals around him, and of course Daisy. Rather, it was moreso a life without humans. From his time at that academy he learned some of the more brutal truths concerning humans. Two days a week, sometimes more, they would all gather in a chapel and pray or sing hymns to some higher being. The whole ritual itself seemed strange, and almost absurd to him. Was there really some divine being that judged the humans? They seemed to revere this being, known as God, but at the same time they feared him. He himself had come from a sheltered lifestyle, and after the unfortunate incident with his mother he sought to see the world. Where he had spent his earlier, the humans were shallow and closed-minded, but he didn’t pin that on the race itself. Rather, he wanted to see what the world had to offer and how diverse these ‘bitter’ humans could get. 

Regardless, he was fond of them. Humans found hope in the strangest things. Some of them were brutal and unforgiving, but there were always others willing to stand up and fight for what they thought was right. They were intriguing creatures. So delicate, yet acting as if they could rule the world. However, the same thing could be said for his kind. Often the line was blurred between his kind and the humans. There had also been civil wars, oppression, and bloodshed in his world. His race itself was a lot like humans, but after a point, the line became solid and he was no longer similar to the species that he admired so much. 

However, what motivated him to travel back to one of the countries he'd visited in his youth wasn't his insatiable interest for humans. It was a feeling. A dangerous, foreboding feeling. There had been an artifact that was lost in time and forgotten by most that held unmeasurable power. Of course, in the wrong hands, such power could be all the more treacherous. Thus, taking it upon himself, he traveled to a small city in the dry state of California to follow nothing more than a gut feeling. There was a chance that he could be wrong, but then again, he could also be right. 

Yongguk was able to find his target quickly, though perhaps target wasn’t the correct word. It wasn’t as if he wanted to kill them, no. All he wanted was the artifact. However, when he laid his eyes on his ‘target’ he was quite surprised. 

It was in one of the aisles at the local supermarket in that small, off-the-map town. A tall, long-limbed and lanky kid stood in front of the dairy coolers with a broom and a bored expression. His work hat was a faded blue and had the logo of the store embroidered into the front of it. He wore a bright orange apron that should have reached below his knees, yet couldn’t stretch far enough over his long legs. A cheap plastic name tag was pinned to the striped cotton sweatshirt he wore beneath his mandatory work-apron. The name was unreadable as the tag itself had been covered with a variety of foil stickers and all that stuck out was a bold ‘J’. 

What clung to this supermarket employee wasn’t just the usual disinterest or apathy. There was also something curious about him. It had nothing to do with his awkward mannerisms or clumsy ways. Instead, it was as if something was stuck to him like the stickers adorning his name tag. It was difficult to place a name to it, but finally it clicked. It was almost as if this kid wasn’t quite… human. 

There was no doubt he blended in with the rest of them. This J -- which was what he’d be referred to as since he lacked a proper name -- was just like the rest of them save for one minor thing. Though all of his behaviours and understandings and looks were in line with the other humans’ he seemed just slightly off. It wasn’t anything significant, yet it was there. There was just something about him when he stood, moving that old frayed broom from side to side, that wasn’t quite right. Of course, it wasn’t the easiest to detect. Yongguk had visited that supermarket time and time again to observe J and still couldn't put his finger on it. He did anything from deliberately getting into his checkout lane -- despite the fact that there were many others that were far less crowded -- to “accidentally” bumping into him while gathering his food for the week. Each and every time J was polite, respectful and held none of that malice that many humans were said to have. 

It occurred to him -- right as he was eating his ham and cheese sandwich and Daisy was eating a hearty meal of her own -- that perhaps some entity of the artifact attached itself to J in order to hide it's presence. As true as that could be, what were the odds? He voiced his concerns to Daisy who, as uninterested as she could, responded with a low groan before she went back to tearing apart the expensive steak that was held firmly between her paws and making a mess of their old tent.

“I ought to replace you with him,” He had joked, poking her protruding stomach as she feasted. “At least he's civil.”

Weeks later, and Yongguk was just as unsuccessful. J had done nothing out of the ordinary, and when he followed him home nothing stuck out in particular. Even when Yongguk had spilled coffee on his apron by “mistake” J didn’t even seem remotely upset. He brushed it off, and offered to buy Yongguk another coffee. Another coffee! Wouldn’t most be at the very least angry? The entire exchange left Yongguk very confused, though after relaying that day’s events to Daisy she made it seem like it was completely normal. Despite their familiarity, Yongguk still found himself misinterpreting her at times. 

Finally, though, Yongguk made his breakthrough. 

He had been staying in that small town for close to six months, and within that timespan had accomplished barely anything. J did nothing but confound him. Even though he had that almost superficial air to him, Yongguk had yielded nothing from searching his apartment, observing his daily life, and interacting with him. Six months in a tent with an irritable black bear in the middle of a state that was a completely different climate was almost unbearable -- no pun intended. With every day that went by, Daisy became more restless and eager to go home. She was well used to the tropical environment as well as the large green canopy that surrounded her at home. This place was… quite the opposite. It was dry and there was almost no foliage to detract them from the hot sun. Though it wasn’t Hell, it was pretty damn close to it. 

One late night at the checkout counter, and Yongguk saw his chance. J was working lane 8, and the luminescent number that shone weakly above the conveyor belt was almost headache inducing. In front of him, a woman with bags heavy under her eyes and a pale complexion was purchasing a small supply of groceries. Her wrists were thin and the jewellery that adorned them hung off of them like weighted shackles. The apartment that she would go back to would most likely have been as meek as her small, hunched over figure. 

J finished bagging her assortment of groceries, almost mirroring her exhausted look. As he uttered a “Thank you for shopping with us,” his voice was quieter than usual. The striped sweater that he often wore had been traded for a loose blue t-shirt that hung lazily off of his form. He stretched, long arms held above his head, before moving on to do Yongguk’s transaction. That unattractive blue hat that J always wore was absent from his head, and for the first time Yongguk was able to see his face clearly. Something about his weak smile and the way his dark hair fell against his face was almost… familiar. 

A medley of sandwiches prepared in the deli as well as a quite a few different cuts of meat had been placed on the conveyor belt beforehand, and were separated from the woman’s by a triangular divider. J slid it off of the black rubber of the belt and put it back into it’s place in front of the towers of gum varieties. He began scanning the sandwiches with all of the practiced grace of a veteran grocery store employee. In no time, both the sandwiches and the meat were packed expertly into the plastic shopping bags and he was awaiting Yongguk’s payment patiently. 

Yongguk squinted at the total that had come up in almost neon blue numbers on the yellowed screen in front of him. That was significantly more than he anticipated. If Daisy hadn’t insisted on coming along, there was no doubt he would have saved considerably more money. He handed J three twenty dollar bills and watched, intrigued, as his eyes widened and his tired face lit up with a glow of childish curiosity. 

“I love your sleeves. You’ve got a beautiful language tattooed on your arms.” J remarked, his pupils blown with admiration. 

Yongguk let out a soft laugh. The tattoos that decorated his arms were quite elaborate. He’d done them himself as a way of protection. J was right; the language that lined his arms was beautiful, but it was also something more. A series of incantations and sutras and spells cascaded along the entire expanse of both his right and left arms. They ranged from simple curse protection charms to full-blown destructive spells that were only to be used in the most dire of situations. The words inscribed into his skin along with the elegant colours and pictures served to set him apart from others of his kind. They gave him power, and a significant upper hand. 

“Thank you,” Yongguk offered J a smile and pointed to a particular string of words wrapped around his wrist in a dark blue ink. “This one means ‘beneath thy compassion’. It’s a Latin phrase.” 

J blinked out of surprise. “That’s not Latin, though, is it?”

“Not at all. It’s been translated into something else.” Yongguk tapped his foot on the ground. Not out of impatience, but out of anxiety. He honestly had no way to know what would come out of J’s mouth next. 

He didn’t speak immediately, though. Rather, he stared at Yongguk’s tattoos as if he was studying them. Finally: “I have a book and it,” he paused, “It has that language in it.” 

Yongguk tilted his head, eyes widening. This was it. Exactly what he had sought out for six months ago. He was just about to reply when J spoke; “Do you think that you could translate it?” 

Eager to jump at this wonderful, shining opportunity, Yongguk nodded. “Of course.” 

J held out his hand with a kind smile. “I’m Junhong. Could we meet at the coffee shop after my shift? Say, around three?” 

 

He offered a smile of his own, and returned the handshake. “Yongguk,” he nodded and agreed to the meeting at the coffee shop. As if by a twist of fate, he actually found exactly what he was looking for. Finally, the artifact he had been looking for was within his grasp. This kid, this… weird kid was handing it out to him as if it was candy. Of course, he had to remain suspicious, but he always had Daisy to back him up in his times of need. Things would fall into place, and in no time he’d be back home under the green hues of his familiar canopy.


End file.
